The Way We Were
by sweetburgundy
Summary: Dr. Clarkson has never been happier, especially with his blossoming friendship with Isobel Crawley. War, however, changes everything, and the doctor must make some very tough decisions. What must he sacrifice to keep the peace at Downton?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A little scene that has been running around the old head. Let me know if you want me to continue, and as usual, reviews, criticisms and ideas are so very welcome! **

**_Disclaimer: I obviously don't own any of the characters or places – the great Julian Fellowes has that honour!_**

* * *

The office was almost unbearably warm, but not even that could affect Dr Clarkson's cheerful mood. He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason for his happiness, but he wasn't about to complain – days like this had become such a rarity, especially since the start of the war, and he found himself being remarkably productive.

He looked up from the last of his paperwork, stretching out his arms with a sigh. It was such a lovely day, he wondered whether Isobel would care to talk a walk with him later, perhaps when it was a bit cooler and she had finished her own work. She was sitting at her desk, frowning intently at a pile of papers, looking unusually harassed – she was normally so calm and composed, but today she was clearly not sharing in Dr Clarkson's sudden burst of unexplained good humour.

"Is everything alright, Isobel?" he asked, slipping his final form neatly into its folder.

"No," she said, running her hands across her face, leaving a streak of ink on her cheek. She looked thoroughly miserable, her hair tumbling out of its pins, her shoes kicked off under the desk. "Oh, look at my face! What is wrong with me today?"

He passed her some tissue, trying not to smile as she scrubbed at her face - it was reassuring to know that even the great Isobel Crawley was prone to bad days and foul moods.

"I assume you aren't enjoying our early summer?"

"I hate the heat," she said, throwing the tissue on to the desk in defeat. "And your good mood is annoying."

He chuckled, not at all offended by her bluntness; it was something he had got used to very quickly with her. The early days had not been so easy – it wasn't Isobel's way to make things easy – but as their friendship developed, he found himself on the receiving end of her sharp tongue a little less often and a little less sensitive when it did happen. Now, he couldn't imagine working without her and had even made the bold decision to allow her to share his office shortly after the war began. It had been difficult to allow someone to invade his personal space in such a way, but he made the sacrifice for the sake of practicality and she never gave him any reason to regret it.

"I'll do whatever's left," he said, reaching out for the papers. "You can finish early today. It's not as if we're particularly busy."

"I couldn't possibly let you…"

"Quiet now, Isobel. Give me the papers before I change my mind."

"Thank you," she said sheepishly, handing him the sheaf of papers that had driven her almost to despair. He could tell she wanted to say something, to explain herself maybe, but the relief of escaping the stuffy office was too great. Instead, she picked up her shoes and started putting them back on, brushing the loose strands of hair from her face with the back of her hand. He liked that she didn't feel the need for airs and graces around him; she would never be seen outside of the office like this, shoes off and hair a mess, but with him it was different.

"I was wondering," he added casually, suddenly a little nervous, "if you would care to join me on a walk this evening?"

She looked up, her curiosity stirred by the change in his tone. He couldn't explain why he was nervous; he and Isobel often spent time together after work, either at his house or hers with a cup of tea or a glass of whisky. It was a perfectly innocent request, but his mouth felt dry as he waited for her response.

"I would love to," she said, straightening her stockings, "but I'm afraid I can't tonight. I've been invited to dinner at the big house, and I really can't say no this time."  
"That's strange," he said, ignoring the odd surge of disappointment rising in his chest. "Lady Grantham sent a message saying that she would like to speak to me this evening. She didn't mention dinner."

"I imagine they will ask you to stay," she said. "In fact, I hope they do."

"Really?"

"Of course. Those things are tremendously dull, and it would be nice to have a friend to talk to."

He looked up from the pile of papers, surprised that Isobel would think of him as more of a friend than anyone else at the big house. He knew she didn't always make life easy for herself and things were a bit strained with Cora, but he had always assumed that she had found her place at Downton.

"Maybe we can walk afterwards?" she suggested, standing up and crossing to the mirror. "It shouldn't be too late, and it would so nice and cool by then."

"That sounds perfect," he replied, signing off another form with a flourish. "And if I don't stay for dinner, why don't you come round for a glass of something afterwards?"

"If they haven't bored me to death," she laughed, turning towards the door, her hand hovering for a moment over the handle. "I wonder what Cousin Cora wants with you?"

"I have no idea, but she seemed insistent enough."

"I suppose we'll find out soon enough," said Isobel, suddenly rather serious.

He noticed that she hadn't quite managed to remove all of the ink from her cheek, but he didn't say anything. She seemed to have the weight of the world on her shoulders – a little bit of ink was the least of her worries.

"I'll see you tonight then?"

"See you tonight, Isobel."

She slipped out of the office, leaving him alone, the room suddenly quiet and empty. She seemed to have taken all the air with her too; the warmth that had been pleasant before was suddenly suffocating and humid. Not so long ago, he would have given anything to get her out of his hair for five minutes, but surprisingly, it seemed that he preferred to be in her company these days. He put his pen down, giving himself a little mental shake.

_You'll see her tonight; now, pull yourself together. And why on earth did you offer to do all her paperwork? She's here to help you, not the other way round._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Please review if you have the time. I will continue if you're enjoying it, so don't hesitate to let me know what you like/dislike/think in general :)**

Isobel had always felt a little torn about Downton Abbey despite its breathtaking beauty; she could never fathom the need for such a fine place for one family. There was so much space, so much money and so much excess when the war was creating an ever-growing need to lower the divide between the rich and the poor. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but be amazed at the grandeur, intrigued by the seemingly endless maze of rooms and corridors.

She wandered slowly from room to room, pausing occasionally to admire a painting or to run her hand along sumptuous velvet curtains. The drawing room had been overbearing, family members wandering in and out, an endless stream of maids and footmen fussing over the smallest of details. Without Matthew there, she was an outsider, and nobody seemed to have noticed her slip out into the cool hallway and up the stairs.

Her mind drifted to Dr Clarkson as she noticed the sun sinking lower in the sky, casting a dusky shimmer over the lawn. Dinner wasn't going to be served for quite some time; they would be going for a midnight walk at this rate. She sighed impatiently, suddenly overcome with the desire to walk straight out of the front doors and back to Crawley House.

"Are you alright, Mrs Crawley?"

Isobel jumped, almost knocking over an impressive vase of white lilies that had been balanced on a nearby dresser. She steadied it, turning to face the source of the voice. It was Mrs Hughes, the Scottish housekeeper, studying her with a look of concern.

"I'm fine thank you, Mrs Hughes. I was just feeling a little hot downstairs." Isobel flashed a smile that didn't quite meet her eyes. Mrs Hughes had to be several years younger, but years of service had taken their toll, and whatever remained of her former beauty was now characterised by her greying hair and lined skin.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

Isobel shook her head. "I'll be down in a moment."

Mrs Hughes nodded, turning on her heel to leave. Isobel liked Mrs Hughes, and she couldn't help wondering if in another life they might have been friends, gossiping like the girls downstairs about the latest scandal or talking in hushed voices about past lovers.

"Is Dr Clarkson here?" Isobel hadn't meant to ask, nor had she even been aware that the question was on the tip of her tongue, but it didn't surprise her; she found that he was never far from her thoughts these days.

"He's in the library with her Ladyship," Mrs Hughes replied, the trace of an amused smile on her lips. "Would you like me to send for him?"

"No, it's fine," said Isobel quietly, turning to look back out over the lawn. "I was just wondering."

She heard the door shut as Mrs Hughes left, and she closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She couldn't wait for this evening to be over. It was unbearable now, but later on when she was with Richard, they would talk and laugh about it all, and he would make it all better. That was one thing she knew she could rely on.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Lady Grantham. What you're asking of me is impossible."

"My dear Dr Clarkson," said Cora sweetly, looking up at him from beneath her dark eyelashes, "I'm not asking you to get by with less staff. I will find someone else for you – a replacement."

The word echoed in Dr Clarkson's ears, a sick feeling rising in the pit of his stomach. A replacement?

"She's a good nurse. It will be hard to find anyone better, especially in difficult times like these."

"I'm not denying her ability. It's her unorthodox ways I have a problem with. All I'm asking is that by the end of the week, Isobel Crawley is no longer working at the hospital or anywhere near my home."

"Lady Grantham, your request is unreasonable," said Dr Clarkson, feeling a little panicked. He had seen Isobel clash swords several times with Cora, and he had no desire to find himself in the same position.

Cora raised a groomed eyebrow, the look in her eye suggesting that he had entered dangerous territory. "She is a threat to my home and to my family with her radical ideas. She has already convinced everyone that Downton should become a convalescent home! I cannot have her here any longer."

Dr Clarkson took a deep breath, barely able to believe what he was about to say. "With all due respect, you have no power over my staff at the hospital. If you wish to ban Mrs Crawley from Downton Abbey I cannot stop you, but as far as the hospital is concerned, you have no say."

She flinched as though he had slapped her in the face, her expression darkening at the prospect of not getting her own way. She pursed her lips like a spoilt child, narrowing her eyes as she judged Dr Clarkson in a new light. She had thought he would agree easily– he usually preferred a quiet life.

"I see," she said at last, tilting her head to the side as though thinking hard about something. "Although I do wonder why you're so very desperate to keep her here? Perhaps you have personal reasons?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You're very close to her, aren't you? Maybe you're hoping for something more? Or maybe there _is_ something more that we…"

"Please, Lady Grantham!" said Dr Clarkson, his cheeks burning at the thought. "I can assure you it's nothing like that."

"Well, if you have no other loyalty to her, then I don't see your problem. I may have no power over your hospital, but I can make Isobel's life here at Downton very miserable. If she is still here by the end of the week, I will get rid of her myself, and it won't be pleasant. Your choice, Dr Clarkson."

"That's unfair," he said, the sick feeling returning to the pit of his stomach.

"Life's unfair," said Cora sharply. "If you don't mind, I must see to my guests. I would ask you to stay for dinner, but I wouldn't want you to feel awkward around Mrs Crawley."

A desperate wave of helplessness washed over him as Cora turned her back, the conversation clearly over; there was nothing more he could say or do other than get used to the feeling of guilt resting heavy in his heart. Isobel would be leaving Downton one way or the other, and he was powerless. All he could do now was leave Cora to revel in her triumph and hope that something would change her mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This one ran away with me a little bit. It was supposed to be a nice quiet chat in Dr Clarkson's house, but they didn't want to stay there. Hope you enjoy it anyway and let me know what you think so far :)**

The sun had set hours ago, the sky tainted deep purple and red, like a bruise. Dr Clarkson waited alone, two glasses of wine on the table, although he had already had a whisky or two to steady his nerves. He had left Downton Abbey without a backward glance, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to make sense of the situation he suddenly found himself in. He couldn't face Isobel – certainly not then, and probably not now – but he knew that when he hadn't turned up at dinner she would come to see him.

Just after 11pm, there was a sharp knock at the door that he recognised immediately as Isobel's. He jumped to his feet, looking guiltily around the place as if his thoughts may have written themselves all over the furniture. He wasn't going to tell her what Cora had said – it wasn't the right time, although he knew that she would sense that something was wrong before she even got a foot in the door.

"Come in," he said, forcing a smile as he opened the door. She stood on his doorstep in a gown of deep burgundy, her honey blonde hair pinned back neatly and just the smallest hint of rouge on her lips and cheeks. He found himself staring at her a little longer than necessary, not quite sure why he was noticing all these details about her. He cursed the whisky – it always had a strange effect on him.

She stepped into his house, taking off her gloves and laying them on the table as if she had lived there her whole life. He followed her, watching the sway of her hips and the graceful curve of her back as she made her way into his living room.

"I'm very surprised you didn't stay for dinner. I was very much so looking forward to our walk," she said as soon as she had sat down, taking her usual seat by the fire even though it wasn't lit. "So, what did Cousin Cora have to say?"

"She didn't say much," he lied, trying to keep his voice steady. "She just wanted to discuss plans for the convalescent home."

Isobel raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"She's taking an interest now? Tell me, what exactly does she have in mind? I get the feeling we could work together quite well if she really has come around to the idea."

Dr Clarkson swallowed, his brain not working fast enough to keep up the pretence.

"She was very vague," he answered eventually, his voice wavering. He coughed, hoping to cover up his unease.

Isobel studied him carefully, her eyes narrowing as he shifted uncomfortably beneath her gaze. She took a long slow sip of wine as she weighed him up.

"You're lying to me," she said at last. "There's a reason you didn't stay for dinner."

"I wasn't invited," he replied quickly with what he hoped was a casual shrug. This, at least, wasn't a lie.

"If you can't tell me, Richard, then just say, but please don't lie to me."

The room was very warm all of a sudden, sweat breaking out across his forehead. He tried to think of something to say, a way to break the news gently, but he was overwhelmed with the need to get out, to get away from his own house and away from Isobel.

"Take a walk with me," he said suddenly, making his way to the front door, picking up Isobel's gloves on the way. "You said you wanted a walk."

"I haven't finished my wine – "

"Please, Isobel!"

She looked at him for a moment, a little taken aback by his sudden sharpness – he was always so gentle with her, always so calm. He was pacing by the front door, waiting for her with an unsteady look in his eyes; she had never seen him like this before.

"Ok. I'll come," she said, trying to disguise the hurt in her voice. She took her gloves from him, but he was already out of the door and halfway down the garden before she had a chance to put them on.

* * *

The air was still heavy with the heat of the day, suffocating and humid, but Dr Clarkson didn't slow down. He walked as if his life depended on it, Isobel in tow, his head swimming with the weight of what he had to say to her.

They hadn't been walking for long, but she struggled to keep up, her shoes not the most practical and her gown swirling around her legs, tangling itself around her knees and ankles.

"Richard!" she snapped eventually, grabbing his hand to stop him. "Stop this!"

He stopped dead, looking down at their entwined hands in surprise. Her skin was cool and soft, a welcome relief from the stifling air, a piece of reality that brought him back to earth with a bump. They had only got as far as the footpath behind his house, but as he looked at Isobel, he realised he must have scared her; her hair was coming loose, her cheeks flushed with the effort of keeping up with him, a look of deep distrust in her eyes.

"Oh, Isobel," he whispered, running the hand that wasn't holding hers over his face, trying to pull himself together. "I'm so sorry."

"Just tell me what's wrong," she said firmly.

He took a deep breath, trying to delay the inevitable. He could give her a few more seconds of blissful ignorance before he tore her life apart, but he could see the hurt in her eyes, her trust in him dwindling.

"You can't work at the hospital any longer."

She stepped away from him, her eyes wide. He felt her hand slip away from his, his skin tingling where she had been.

"I'm sorry," he said, staring at the floor. He had no excuses, nothing to say to her.

"Cora made you do this?" She looked like a wild animal that had been cornered. She didn't know which way to turn, who to trust anymore.

"If I keep you on at the hospital, she will drive you out of Downton. I believe her when she says she is capable of making your life miserable. She doesn't want you involved in the convalescent home or with the hospital. This way, at least you can stay around."

"You're trying to tell me you're doing this for my own good?"

"You can choose to believe me or not, Isobel."

She blinked several times. He wondered if she was fighting back tears.

"And if I refuse to leave? What if I want to fight her?"

"I can't stop you, but I don't want to see you get hurt," he said softly, reaching his hand out to her. "Please don't make things difficult for yourself."

She looked at his outstretched hand, considering him for several moments. She felt hurt and betrayed, but he was her only friend in this, her only ally. Wearily, she reached out, slipping her hand into his strong fingers, feeling them close around her skin, warm and gentle, the touch of a true doctor.

He pulled her close, slipping his arm around her shoulders. She rested her head against him, letting the silent tears begin to fall as he pressed himself closer to her.

"I should have done more," he said, a hint of anger in his voice. Now that he had her in his arms like this, he could think of nothing worse than letting her go. "I'm surprised you can still even consider being my friend after what I've done to you."

She looked up at him, the silver glow of the moonlight casting shadows on his face, making his features look stronger, his skin look younger. It was such a beautiful night, the stars flecked across the sky and barely anybody out to see them.

"You're the only friend I have," she said with a sad smile. "And I would hate to leave Downton without a single happy memory."

"You don't have to leave Downton, Isobel. I just can't have you at the hospital any longer."

"I won't stay where I'm not useful," she said resolutely. "War changes everything, Richard. I need to go where I am useful."

She felt his tender fingers under her chin, gently tilting her face towards his; they were so close she could feel his breath ghosting over her cheek.

"We'll talk tomorrow," he whispered, his eyes fixed firmly on hers.

She nodded, closing her eyes as the scent of him washed over her, spices and soap and all things familiar. She was tired of talking – all she needed now was to feel safe, as if everything could be alright again, as if in a few days time she wouldn't have to leave the only man who could hold her together.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm not sure I'm completely happy with where this story is going, but I decided to upload anyway. Not sure whether I'm going to continue, so I would appreciate any reviews/opinions enormously, and hopefully I can get out of this horrible mindset! Thank you for bearing with me so far!**

The sheets were damp with sweat where they tangled around his legs and waist, creased and overbearingly warm. He lay awake, any pretence of trying to sleep abandoned as he let the events of the day replay over and over in his mind.

He thought of Cora and her sudden spite towards Isobel, the awful request she had made of him and the look on her face when he had refused. He thought of the nervous hours he had spent waiting for Isobel and the anticipation of being alone with her. But what he thought about more than anything else was the feeling of having her in his arms, her body pressed against him like a lover, her face, eyes closed, only inches from his.

He shifted restlessly. He didn't want to dwell on this image – it wasn't right, it wasn't proper – but his mind was unable to let it go, his body reacting in a way he didn't want it to. He turned, clenching his fists, keeping them tight against his chest, fighting any temptation to corrupt this innocent picture. She needed to be able to trust him – he needed to be able to trust himself to comfort her.

He had resisted then, fought against every urge in his body to lean a little closer, to taste the soft flesh of her bottom lip. The thought had burst into his mind without warning, boldly and brilliantly, the realisation of what was happening taking him completely by surprise; his mind had been waiting for that moment to tell him that he was, in fact, irrevocably in love with Isobel Crawley.

* * *

Her heels clicked loudly on the tiled floor as she went about her rounds, her manner a little more terse than usual. She scribbled her notes quickly, her handwriting not much more than a scrawl, although she couldn't help but think it was an improvement on Richard's, even on a good day.

She had slept remarkably well, considering the events of last night, but as she patrolled the ward, she couldn't shake a nagging feeling at the back of her mind. It had something to do with Richard, but she couldn't put her finger on it. He had been so kind to her yesterday, so protective that he had made her feel there may be a way out of this, that maybe Cora could be talked around, and everything would be ok again. Things could go back to the way they were before the war had changed them.

She glanced up, noticing him at the office door. Their eyes met for a brief moment before he started, looking away as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn't. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, a flash of memory from last night causing her to turn away in embarrassment. They had been _so_ close.

She scribbled hurriedly in her notebook, very much aware that he was still watching her.

* * *

"It's not so warm today," he said brightly, handing her a cup of too pale tea. He had never been any good at making tea, something that she found almost unforgivable in a man, but had learned to make an exception for him. "I thought there was a storm coming yesterday, but I think it's blown over. It's still jolly nice weather though."

She took the tea, irritated and curious by his reversion to small talk with her. Everything was usually so easy between them.

"I prefer the winter," she replied firmly, wondering how to change the subject away from weather systems. "Have you heard anything from Cousin Cora today?"

"No. Not today," he said, running a hand over his moustache, his fingers stroking the greying hair on his upper lip – it was a habit she had noticed he developed when he was nervous. "You could never live abroad in the summer."

"Sorry?" she said, making no effort to hide the exasperation in her voice.

"Because of the heat, I mean. And because you'd be here. Well, hopefully." He stopped himself abruptly, realising he was straying into the very territory he'd been hoping to avoid. He swallowed, not daring to meet Isobel's eyes.

"Last night, I told you I planned to leave Downton for somewhere I would be appreciated," she said, setting her teacup down firmly on the desk. "You promised we would talk about it today, which suggests you care enough about me to at least try and change my mind. So, what's changed?"

Her lips were pressed tightly together, her stiff posture betraying her annoyance.

"Nothing's changed," he said quickly. "I just didn't think it was the right time to talk about it."

"I see," she said in a voice that told him she didn't see at all. "But it is the right time to talk about non-existent thunderstorms?"

"Listen," he said, deciding to go down the diplomatic route rather than argue with her, "I think we're both finding this a bit difficult at the moment. Of course I'm going to do everything I can to help you, but I've been put in a very tough position."

"I can make things very easy for you," she said with a shrug that suggested she was testing him.

"Oh, Isobel," he said wearily. "You know that's not what I mean."

She looked at him for a moment, her velvet brown eyes weighing him up. When she finally dropped her gaze, he sensed a sudden sadness in her that replaced all her anger.

"That's just it," she said. "I _don't_ know what you mean."

He frowned, pressing his fingertips together as he waited for her to continue.

"I thought I knew where I stood with you, but now I'm not so sure. Last night, you were wonderful, but you seem to have changed your mind. You can barely look at me today."

"For that, I'm sorry, but I can assure you it's not because I've changed my mind. You know me, Isobel," he said.

She watched his hands as he fidgeted nervously, the memory of his fingers closing around hers making her suddenly shy.

"So, why?" she said, hoping he hadn't noticed her watching him like that.

He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again as he realised that he couldn't quite put it in to words. How could he explain what he had realised last night? How could he explain the thoughts he'd been having ever since those wonderful moments in the moonlight?

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears as she waited for him to answer, half knowing what he was about to say, half afraid to hear him say it out loud.

"Dr Clarkson!"

There was a sudden knock at the door, bringing them both back to their senses. They scrambled to their feet almost knocking the teacups flying as the door opened to reveal a harassed-looking nurse.

"I hope I wasn't disturbing anything," said the nurse, looking curiously from Richard to Isobel.

"Not at all," said Richard a little too quickly.

"Lady Grantham is here to see you, and she says it absolutely can't wait."

"Thank you, Nurse Fletcher," he said, shooting a quick glance at Isobel who had frozen at the mention of Lady Grantham's name. "I'll be through immediately."

"She wants to see Nurse Crawley too."

Isobel looked at Richard as Nurse Fletcher left, her eyes wide with fear. The tension of a few moments ago had vanished, replaced with a sense of dread that made her sick to her stomach. She wasn't ready to face Cora – all her strength had gone.

Richard put his hand gently on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze of reassurance. He had seen Isobel do battle many times with the Dowager Countess and Lady Grantham, and it was an aspect of her he both admired and feared. As he guided her firmly out of the door, his hand resting on the delicate curve of her shoulder blades, he was lost for words; he knew she could stand up for herself better than anyone, but he had to hope it would be enough.

As they walked side by side down the ward to where Lady Grantham was waiting, Richard leant close to Isobel and whispered something quickly into her ear, realising he had never managed to explain himself properly to her - the promise of an explanation might just be enough to show her that he was truly on her side.

"I have something important to tell you."

"I know."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight," she agreed, managing a smile as she put her hand on the door handle.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm so very grateful for your reviews and encouragement. I'm not one to give up so easily, so here goes another chapter! I hope you like it - I don't feel I've done it justice, but let me know what you think anyway! Keep reviewing and commenting - it keeps me going!**

The silence was palpable in the small examination room that Richard had ushered them into. He hadn't wanted a scene outside in the waiting room - if he had learned anything about Isobel over the last few years, it was that she wouldn't hold back.

"Your office might be a little more comfortable?" suggested Lady Grantham, disgruntled at her unceremonious treatment.

"It's a mess," said Richard shaking his head. "We've been rather busy I'm afraid." He thought of their tea abandoned on the desk and the comfortable set-up of Isobel's desk right next to his. To let Lady Grantham see evidence of their unorthodox friendship would only add fuel to the fire.

"What did you want to say, Cousin Cora?" Isobel spoke for the first time, her voice a little high, but with a strength that Richard admired her for. She hadn't offered any greeting or small talk; she had simply observed, her expression a mixture of determination and distaste.

"I think I've been a little harsh with you," said Cora, taking Richard's offer of a chair. He gestured for Isobel to sit too, but she shook her head, her feet planted firmly to the floor. "I hope you understand my reasons for what I said to Dr Clarkson."

"As a matter of fact, I don't," replied Isobel.

Cora sighed, realising that Isobel was not going to come around as easily as she had hoped.

"I have a family to protect. All the upheaval of the convalescent home, it's not fair on them, and I simply cannot stand by and watch as you take over my home."

"You know that's not what I'm doing. Not permanently, anyway. It's necessary that we all pull together, and Downton Abbey is no exception. Think of all the good we could do, all the people we could help, and it would be a relatively small sacrifice compared to what is going on in France."

Richard groaned inwardly with a rising sense of frustration with Isobel. She just couldn't help herself.

"This is exactly what I mean," said Cora. "I simply cannot have you interfering at every turn."

"I wouldn't call it interfering – "

"I admire your nerve, Cousin Isobel, but I'm afraid you're just reinforcing my point."

"We need convalescent homes. It's a fact, and Downton is the perfect place. I understand your reservations about it, but I cannot stand here and let this opportunity go to waste."

"Nurse Crawley," warned Richard, hoping she would understand it was for her own good. "Let's just listen to what her Ladyship has come to say."

Isobel smarted, her nostrils flaring, but she remained silent, much to Richard's relief.

"Well," said Cora, clearing her throat, "it was probably unfair of me to ask for your removal from the hospital when you have no other work. I'm not a mean person, and I understand your need to feel useful and fulfilled."

"I am perfectly capable of finding my own work," said Isobel abruptly, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Richard could almost feel the heat of her anger radiating from her skin.

"I would feel better if I knew that I had helped you to get back on your feet in one way or another," Cora persisted, reaching into her bag, offering a handful of leaflets to Isobel. "That's why I brought you these."

Isobel didn't move, her knuckles white as she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Her lips were pressed together so tightly that her mouth had become almost invisible – Richard wondered if she didn't trust herself to speak.

"Thank you very much, Lady Grantham," he said, taking the leaflets on Isobel's behalf. A quick glance told him they were job advertisements for nurses all over the country.

"There are some vacancies in York, Manchester and even Cornwall."

"Indeed," replied Richard, leafing through them numbly.

"So, if I can just leave those with you," said Cora, glancing at Isobel, "you will hopefully find something to your liking."

"I'll see you out, Lady Grantham," said Richard, reaching for the door handle as Cora stood up, her tall, slim build cutting an imposing figure in comparison to Isobel's smaller, curvier frame.

"Goodbye, Cousin Isobel," said Cora in one last attempt to get a reaction, but Isobel didn't reply. Instead, she glared at the leaflets still in Richard's hand, her face pale and eyes wide. "I hope this won't cause any atmosphere between us. I'd very much like it if we could still get along."

Isobel's head snapped up, her jaw clenched as she drew herself to her full height.

"I'm not leaving," she said firmly. "I will stay here at Downton, at this hospital, for as long as I so desire. Whether we get along or not is completely in your hands."

Cora opened and closed her mouth several times, wrong-footed by Isobel's sudden outburst.

"We'll see about that," she said once she'd regained her composure, her eyes flashing dangerously. "We'll soon see who's in charge."

* * *

Isobel was curled up on his sofa, her feet tucked beneath her, arms wrapped tightly around herself. He had poured her a glass of wine, but she hadn't touched it, gazing into the empty fireplace instead. He had left her alone for a while, knowing that she didn't want to talk just yet, but she still needed the comfort of having someone there.

"It's been a long day," he said finally, taking a seat next to her on the sofa. Normally, he would have chosen one of the chairs, kept a respectable distance from her, but these weren't normal circumstances.

She nodded, still staring at the empty fireplace.

"I'm proud of you for standing up for yourself," he said, taking a sip of his own wine.

"Really?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter, buoyed by his praise.

"Not that I'm an advocate of making life so difficult," he teased. "I much prefer the quiet life."

"You choose your friends badly," she said.

"I wouldn't say that," he said softly, turning to meet her gaze with a look so tender, it made her breath catch in her throat. "You've been such a good friend to me, Isobel. When I first met you, I didn't think it would ever be like this."

"I'm glad we've managed to be friends. When I first came here, I thought nothing would ever be right again. I don't make friends too easily, in case you hadn't noticed."

"People just don't take the time to get to know you," he said wisely, crossing his leg, his foot resting just below her knee. "And from experience, I can say they're missing out."

She furrowed her brow, reaching absent-mindedly for the wine glass on the table.

"But we've had some good fun," he carried on with a hint of nostalgia. Something had changed between them – he could tell by the way she was nervously stroking the stem of her wine glass as she considered their friendship.

"I wish we could go back to the way we were," she said sadly, her voice tainted with whatever atmosphere now lay between them. "I wish things could be how they were before the war."

"War changes a lot of things, Isobel," he replied, taking a deep breath. It broke his heart to see her like this, feeling so sad and alone. "But things weren't right back then."

"Oh?"

She looked at him questioningly.

"Because I wouldn't have the courage to do this."

He took her hand in his, her fingers so warm and soft, and pressed them to his lips in a lingering kiss. He closed his eyes, not daring to look at her, savouring the feeling of her skin against his lips. She let out a long, shuddering breath, her own eyes closing involuntarily.

"I think you know what I was going to say to you earlier," he whispered softly into the silence, reaching up to stroke the smooth skin of her cheek with tips of his fingers.

She nodded, her skin burning where he touched her.

"I don't expect anything from you. I don't expect you to respond, but I need to tell you in my own words." He paused for a moment, steadying his nerves. "I love you."

His words echoed in her ears, the tension and the weight of everything that had been between them shattering into a thousand glorious pieces. She let it all fall around her, painful shards of glass that didn't matter any more. Richard watched her closely for any sign of fear or anger, but none came. Instead, she smiled - a beautiful, infectious smile that made his heart flutter in his chest.

"You might think me a little forward," he added, taking his courage while he still had some, "but I daresay I've felt like this longer than I've allowed myself to admit."

"It might be forward Richard, but I'm awfully glad you said it."

"Are you really?"

He could tell by the smile on her face that she was genuine, but after years of being alone, it was almost too much to hope for. She reached out and took his hand, pressing it firmly against her chest, just above the hard bone of her corset.

"I love you, Richard," she said finally, testing the words out for herself, surprised at how sweet they tasted. "I've loved you for such a long time."

He could feel her heartbeat, impossibly quick beneath the delicate flesh of her breast. His instinct was to pull his hand away, burning at the intimacy of it, but her eyes held him captive, unable to move a muscle.

She moved forward shyly, tilting her head as she sought the warm flesh of his lips, pressing a timid kiss against his mouth. She rested her forehead against his, weak with relief and happiness at what had finally happened between them, at what had been so long in coming. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close against his body, stroking the soft curve of her shoulders, the sensitive skin on her neck.

They stayed like that for a long time, exploring words and feelings that had been hidden for so long, going no further than a few trembling kisses, chaste and tentative, welcoming the overwhelming feelings that accompanied such restrained passion. They stayed like that until the first waves of sleep began to claim them, Richard lying her down gently on the sofa, his arms draped protectively across her stomach. He hadn't fallen asleep with a woman in his arms for many years, but as he watched Isobel's face relax, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she began to dream, he felt an unmistakeable sense of peace in his heart that he hadn't felt since before the war.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This is probably a bit of a strange chapter - I apologise, but I promise there is a point. I also realise Isobel's confession at the end might currently seem a little out of character and sudden, but I hope to explain that in the next chapter.  
**

Elsie Hughes waited impatiently in her sitting room for the arrival of the butler. Mr Carson was usually punctual almost to the point of obsession, but tonight there was no sign of him. She had made the tea, steam no longer rising from the two mugs on the table.

"Where have you been?" she scolded when he finally appeared, slipping through the door sheepishly. Their evening meetings had become a regular occurrence over the last few years – a small window in their busy schedules when they could spend a bit of time together, swapping gossip and sipping wine or tea in either her sitting room or his pantry.

"I could ask you the same question," he replied a little coldly. "It's absolute chaos out there. I can't believe they are going ahead with this madness."

"Oh, Mr Carson," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's not madness. They're setting up a convalescent home, not a mental institution."

"I should have known you would agree with it," he said raising his eyebrows, screwing up his nose as he took a mouthful of cold tea. "One of Mrs Crawley's hair-brained schemes."

She snatched the cup away from him, irritated by his attitude and the fact he was taking his bad mood out on her.

"Don't drink it if it's cold," she snapped. "And I think the way they're treating Mrs Crawley is terrible. I heard her Ladyship talking to O'Brien, and apparently they're trying to get rid of her."

She set the cups down on the dresser with a clatter, standing on her tiptoes to have a better look in the cabinet. She took down two wine glasses and a bottle of red wine that she had kept back after Christmas. Mr Carson had given it to her – one of the few presents that could ever be appropriate between them.

"It doesn't affect you, Mrs Hughes," he replied with a frown. "I never knew you had much to do with Mrs Crawley."

"I don't," shrugged Elsie, her mind wandering back to the evening she had found Mrs Crawley alone upstairs, brooding by the window. She had been so kind, had seemed so human compared to the rest of them waiting downstairs in the drawing room. "I just think it's unfair."

"Your loyalty should lie with the family, Mrs Hughes. They're our employers, and I don't want to hear a word against them."

Mr Carson never raised his voice to her, but she recognised the deep note of firmness in his voice – the matter was not up for discussion. She sighed, uncorking the wine with a satisfying pop. He could be such an infuriating man sometimes.

"Her Ladyship has enough to worry about anyway," Mr Carson continued. "Lady Mary is still no better."

"Poor lamb," said Mrs Hughes feeling an uncharacteristic wave of sympathy for the eldest Crawley child. "It must be three days she's been like that now. Such an awful cold."

"And no sign of it getting any better."

Elsie shook head, pouring deep red liquid into her own glass and then into his.

"I think we're going to need this," she joked, taking a deep, unladylike gulp.

He watched her, a smile twitching at his lips.

"You're probably right, Mrs Hughes."

* * *

He awoke to find his arms empty, an ache in his neck from having slept the whole night on the sofa. He sat up slowly, wondering half-heartedly whether last night had been a dream; in the bright light of day it seemed impossible that he had fallen asleep with Isobel, that he had kissed her and touched her and told her everything, but the two half-full wine glasses on the table told him otherwise.

He stretched, rubbing his joints as they protested against his unusual choice of position, not accustomed to sharing his sleeping space with someone else. No doubt he would suffer later in the day – he was no longer as young and versatile as he had once been – but he couldn't be sorry for it. It had been a perfect night, and although he was a little saddened that she had left so early, he had the feeling it was going to be a perfect day.

* * *

The hospital was quieter than it had been in a long time - now that the convalescent home had been established, a little order could be reinstated, and the patients moved in and out faster than they'd been able to before. Only on reflection did Isobel realise how chaotic life had been since the start of the war, and although most of the beds were still taken by the sick, wounded and dying, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she felt in control.

"Nurse Crawley."

She looked up from her notes, finding herself face to face with a man who could have been Matthew if he'd been just a bit taller, a bit more muscular.

"Private Jones," she said with a smile, priding herself on her commitment to remember the names of all the soldiers who came through the door. "I'm glad to see you're up on your feet."

"Thanks to you," he said, leaning a little on the walking stick he held in his hand. "I'm leaving today. They think I'm well enough to go home now."

"That's excellent news," she replied, remembering the state he'd been in only weeks before. They hadn't been sure he would survive his injuries, never mind walk again, but he had made nothing short of a miraculous recovery. "I wish all our stories had such happy endings."

"You do your best, and that's what counts. I came to thank you before I left, for everything you did for me. You're an excellent nurse, and I'm lucky it was you who looked after me."

"I have to say, we're privileged to have such a good hospital here."

"They're lucky to have you, Nurse Crawley."

She looked at him, remembering how badly mangled he had been and how she had managed to fix him. Kindness and encouragement were a major part of her philosophy – something that seemed to have worked wonders with this young man.

"I'm pleased I can make a difference," she said, flattered at his kind words.

"You do make a difference," he said with a smile.

She returned his smile, feeling a strange sense of sadness as she watched him make his way slowly down the hallway, leaning heavily on his stick. He reminded her so much of Matthew, and she felt a sudden pang in her chest when she thought of the danger he was facing out there on the front line. These soldiers were all somebody's children, and one day, it could be him.

"What are you looking so thoughtful about?"

She hadn't heard his footsteps approach, but when she turned, Richard was at her side, a look of concern on his face. She must have been miles away.

"I was just thinking about Matthew," she replied, shaking herself out of her daydream. "I hate him being away like this."

He rubbed her arm gently, not knowing the right thing to say. It was a bold move in such a public place, but he found that he didn't care.

"Cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely."

"I would have made you tea this morning if you'd let me," he said half-jokingly as he led her into the office, taking her clipboard and pen and handing it to a passing nurse.

"I'm sorry," she said, perching herself tentatively on the edge of her chair. He clattered about for a few moments, finding suitable teacups for them both, unable to put his finger on the atmosphere that now hung between them.

"I was only joking," he said. "What's wrong, Isobel?"

"Nothing," she said a little to quickly. "I told you, I've been thinking about Matthew."

"I don't believe you," he said, abandoning the tea to sit next to her. There was something about her mannerisms, her voice, her expression that told him she wasn't being completely honest. Years of experience had taught him that she was a terrible liar, far too honest for her own good sometimes. "Tell me the truth."

"You're not going to like this," she said, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.

"Try me," he said, a flutter of anxiety rising in his stomach.

"The reason I left this morning was to make a phone call to a friend of mine. I worked with her back in Manchester, and I heard she had been helping to recruit nurses for the war effort."

"You're already a nurse," he said with a frown.

"I've been thinking about what Cora said and those leaflets she gave you. What if she's right and I can be more useful somewhere else?"

He didn't respond, his heart pounding in his chest as the weight of what she was saying sunk in.

"Private Jones, the soldier I was talking to when you came in, confirmed what I've been thinking for a long time," she continued, her voice stronger, a little more self-assured. "We have a good hospital here in Downton. There are places that are far more in need of my services."

"What can you possibly do in Yorkshire or Cornwall that you can't do here?" he said, an urgent ache constricting his chest.

"I'm not talking about Yorkshire or Cornwall," she said quietly. "I'm talking about France."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Please let me know if you're still enjoying this or not.**

He stood up slowly, running a hand through his silver hair; the set of her jaw and the defiance in her eye told him that any attempt to diffuse this idea would be futile.

"You're telling me this now?" he said, pacing over to the window where the fully risen sun blistered in, uninvited. It was still only early morning, but even a few moments in the glaring light left him uncomfortable – the heat of the day was going to be unbearable.

"I wasn't going to," she shrugged, staring down at her hands. "But you did ask."

He looked at the top of her bent head, at the neat and shining curls that she had pinned so carefully in place and wondered how it was possible that he was hearing these words from her mouth. The woman was a mystery – a damned infuriating mystery.

"Say something," she said after several moments of delicate silence.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Isobel," he said, his voice wavering as he failed to distance his emotions. "I've always thought more of you."

"Don't say that," she said closing her eyes. He suspected tears, but he looked away, his disappointment in her too great to offer comfort. He thought of the perfection of last night, the way she had fallen asleep with her body curved against his, the rise and fall of her chest rhythmic and hypnotic. The deceptive thoughts that had been running wild in her mind had stayed hidden - a betrayal she had buried so deeply he couldn't even read it in her eyes when she'd been close enough to kiss.

A sudden and surprising anger surfaced in him.

"I've fought for you," he said. "I wasn't sure at first, but it was you who convinced me we could win. When I wanted to protect you, you wouldn't let me – you wanted to fight. What was it all for if you're just going to give up now?"

She looked up, indignant at his tone.

"You say 'we' like it's your problem, Richard. It's my problem, and I'm grateful for your help, but I believe this is the best solution."

He looked at her incredulously. The woman who had cried in his arms in the moonlight, staining his shirt with her vulnerability, had gone and left behind a stubborn, unyielding replacement. He had seen this Isobel many times over the course of the last few years, often to his amusement, but he had also seen behind her defences – the softer, sweeter side to her that he had always held to be the true Isobel.

"How long have you been thinking like this?" he said, wondering whether last night had scared her more than he had realised.

"Not long," she admitted.

"So what has changed your mind? Why do you suddenly want to leave Downton and everything you've worked for? Does it mean that little to you?"

And there it was - the flicker of her eyes that exposed her to him, the twitch of her mouth as she searched for the lies that she had ready on her tongue. As quickly as it happened, she was composed again, but it was already too late – he had noticed her falter.

"I've already told you," she said, unaware that he had read her. "I believe I can be more useful somewhere else."

"You can be useful here."

She shook her head.

"You'll manage on your own. This is a fine hospital, and you are a fine doctor. You don't need me."

They looked at each other for a few moments, both aware of the inaccuracy of that statement.

"I can be nearer Matthew too," she continued. "I've been thinking about him a lot."

He softened at the tenderness with which she spoke about her son, the way his name rested on her lips for a moment longer than necessary.

"I'm still disappointed in you, Isobel."

"Don't," she said, turning her face away from him, her voice wavering. "I do love you, Richard, and when I'm gone, you'll understand."

He frowned, puzzled at this last statement but chose to let it go. Instead, he moved behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders as she closed her eyes in a mixture of pleasure and sadness. She leaned back into him, her head resting on his stomach as she relished the comfort that this small gesture had given her.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a haze of bustling nurses and scorching sunlight. Isobel sat alone, her pen held loosely in her hand as she tried to write up the day's report, but she scrunched it up for the third time. She clutched the ball of paper in her hand, staring furiously at the contrast of stark white against her tawny skin – old, useless hands, she thought miserably.

She didn't notice the tears on her cheeks until she put her face in her hands and felt the warm, damp mess her own pride had created. He had stayed with her for a while, as she knew he would, but his silence had told her more than his words. Eventually, he had left, summoned by a nurse to whatever emergency had cropped up in his absence, and she had stayed, no longer sure of where she belonged.

Once she let them, the tears came thick and fast, her fist clenching around the ball of paper until it dug into her palm, until it almost drew blood. She threw it down, rubbing the grooves left in her skin, sick and furious with the bitter taste of hidden truth on her tongue.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates - I have been too busy to write in a while, and this story is causing me more trouble than I would like to admit! A review would be much appreciated, if you still have patience for me :)**

* * *

"I forbid you to do it, Mrs Hughes," hissed Mr Carson, drawing himself up to his full height. He was at least a head taller than she was, but pushed into the corner of the store cupboard like that, he was more than a little intimidated.

"Even if her life is at stake?" she replied with as much venom. She did not step back, even though she had to crane her neck to glare into his eyes.

"Lady Mary has a cold," he said, with the air of explaining something to a small child. "Colds do not kill people in this day and age – not like they used to."

"I believe it's something more."  
"And when did you qualify as a nurse?"

She exhaled a hot, angry breath through her nostrils.

"That's why I'm suggesting we seek help," she replied.

* * *

"Can't I see the doctor?" said the soldier lying on the bed in front of her. It surprised Isobel that men in such a predicament could afford to be so picky, but it was the third one today.

"He's rather busy," she said, attempting to take the soldier's wrist but he flinched away – she wasn't even going to get his pulse.

"Isn't there another nurse available?"

She looked down at him, his body crumpled, his defiance very much still in tact.

"I'll see what I can do," she sighed.

* * *

She entered the office and slammed the door, gripping the back of her chair for support. Alone like this, she could afford a few moments to steady her breathing and calm her trembling hands. She closed her eyes, sinking her fingers into the hard wood of the chair until her knuckles turned white.

"Mrs Crawley?"

Isobel jumped, the voice familiar but in the wrong context.

"Mrs Hughes? What are you doing here?"

She attempted to straighten her shoulders, the pity and concern in the gaze of the housekeeper burning her skin – punishment for her pride and secrets.

"I needed to speak to Dr Clarkson," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine," replied Isobel. "I can go and get him for you if you wish?"

Mrs Hughes shook her head.

"He said he would only be a few moments. Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

Isobel shrugged, hiding her hands behind her back, but she knew the housekeeper had already seen her trembling.

"I'm just being silly."

Mrs Hughes sighed, letting her eyes drop away from Isobel's face - she was the servant after all and had no right to pry into the lives of those upstairs. Isobel let go of the chair slowly, testing her ability to stand on her own two feet without falling to pieces. She leaned heavily on the gentle, unobtrusive silence that Mrs Hughes offered with a respectful bow of her head.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to Dr Clarkson," said Isobel once she'd regained her composure. "He'll only worry about me."

"As you wish," replied Mrs Hughes. "Although, I hope you'll tell someone. It does no good to bottle things up."

"Maybe," offered Isobel as a compromise, hiding a small smile at the housekeeper's firm tone. She felt like one of the maids.

"Somehow I don't believe you."

Isobel met her gaze, her soft blue eyes full of a concern that stirred curious feelings in Isobel's chest. No one had ever looked out for her in this way before, not since she was a child, and she could feel tears choking again in the back of her throat. She swallowed them, along with the desire to tell Mrs Hughes everything.

"You probably shouldn't believe anything that I say," said Isobel softly. "I tell so many lies recently."

"Don't we all?" replied Mrs Hughes. "It's a sign of the time."

Isobel frowned, tugging at a loose thread on her apron, watching as it began to unravel in her hands.

"We protect the people we love," the housekeeper continued. "We all have secrets, but the truth is often the best remedy."

"Do you really believe that?" said Isobel, captivated.

"I wouldn't be here otherwise. This is my secret, I suppose, but Mr Carson will know soon enough. I know he will be angry at first, but in time, he will see that I was right."

The thread snapped, and Isobel held the long, white cotton between her fingers, curling it slowly into her palm.

"What are you trying to protect him from?"

"Everything," said Mrs Hughes.

The two women looked at each for a moment, the delicate feathers of understanding settling in the air between them. The door opened suddenly, sending them scattering, but the remains of what had been said lingered in Isobel's mind.

"Hello, Mrs Hughes," said Dr Clarkson, bustling over to his desk. "I assume this is about Lady Mary?"

His entrance, loud and unexpected, sent Isobel recoiling back into herself. She reached for the door, suffocated and sickened by the sound of his voice, so calm and efficient, taking the weight of the housekeeper's secret into his own hands.

"Nurse Crawley," said Mrs Hughes, interrupting Dr Clarkson mid-sentence. "Please remember what I said."

Isobel nodded, swallowing hard. Richard looked at her puzzled, but she couldn't meet his gaze. She opened the door and stepped back out onto the buzzing ward, the noise and smell assaulting her senses, confusion clouding every inch. Her mind was made up as she headed for the front door and out into the clarity of the afternoon breeze.


End file.
